Black Mail (2012) (15 page)

Tony O’Sullivan answered the ring on his doorbell and found Tom Freer standing on the threshold, clutching two carrier bags.

‘Bang on time, Tom.’ Freer transferred both bags to his left hand so he could shake hands. ‘Dino would approve,’ Tony said, taking his hand in a firm grip. ‘Come on in.’

Freer wiped his shoes on the doormat before stepping into the carpeted hallway. Tall and slim, he was wearing a crew-neck sweater and black cord trousers. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, sir,’ he said, looking up admiringly at the high, corniced ceiling.

‘We’re off duty, Tom. It’s Tony.’

‘Okay, sir … er … Tony.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘What do you want me to do with these?’ he asked, holding up the carrier bags.

Tony rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ll take care of that lot,’ he said, taking the bags and leading the way to the kitchen. ‘This smell’s driving me crazy. I didn’t realise how hungry I was.’ Tony slid the four cardboard-covered, tinfoil containers from the carrier bags and left them on the table while he fetched two plates from the rack on the draining board. Help yourself to a drink while I dish this out. Lager’s in the fridge, beer’s in the cupboard under the sink. What’s your poison?’

‘Lager for me, please.’

‘I can’t see past export myself.’

Sitting at opposite sides of the wooden kitchen table they each downed a couple of beers straight from the can while making short work of the curries.

‘You canny whack a Shish Mahal takeaway,’ Tony said, wiping the back of his hand across his lips. ‘How did that compare with London’s finest?’

‘Chicken vindaloo’s the same the world over. Anybody who claims they can taste anything’s a bloody liar.’

‘Fair comment.’ Tony leaned back in his chair. ‘How are you settling in to life in the frozen north?’

‘We’re not really organised yet. Mel and I have rented a furnished flat in Shieldhall. It’s a bit grotty but we managed to negotiate a short-term lease and it’ll do until we find something better.’

‘How’s the job panning out?’

‘So far, so good. Colin Renton’s been a big help – introducing me to everyone and helping me find my feet.’

‘Renton’s the salt of the earth,’ Tony nodded.

‘What about Charlie Anderson?’ Tom asked. ‘What’s he like to work for?’

‘The first time I came across him was when I attended a graduate trainee seminar about ten years ago. He was a DI at the time and his lecture consisted of trying to convince the class of the benefits of learning shorthand. That was how he acquired the nickname “Dino”, after Fred Flintstone’s dinosaur. It really was Stone Age stuff, him strutting up and down the room, waving his notebook in the air and ranting on about “The Key Question” – that’s his pet theory. He thinks the best way to solve a crime is to ask all the questions you can think of and note down the answers, in shorthand of course, then analyse the data to death
until you find an inconsistency. His methods might be out of the ark but his success rate is up there with the best of them.

‘He takes a very pragmatic approach. He realises he can’t convict every villain he’d like to, so he picks his targets and goes after the ones where he thinks he has a realistic chance of getting a result.’

‘He seems to sail close to the wind at times.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘When he was interviewing Gerry Fraser he had a real go at him – physically.’

‘That’s typical of Charlie! If you or I tried that he’d tear a strip off us, but he’s a law unto himself – very much an advocate of “Do as I say, not do as I do”.’

Tony pulled himself to his feet and fetched two more cans. ‘Apart from work, how’s Glasgow treating you?’ he asked, handing across the lager.

‘Okay. Though I think I’m going to need to take language lessons. Do you know if Linguaphone do a course in Glaswegian?’

Tony smiled. ‘You should try to get your hands on the
Parliamo Glasgow
tapes.’

‘What are they when they’re at home?’

‘An old Stanley Baxter routine – the foreigners’ guide to making yourself understood in Glasgow. Foreign includes the east of Scotland, by the way.’ Tony flopped back down on his chair. ‘I liked the one about the German tourist who asked someone to explain the meaning of the word “breeding”. He was told: “It all depends where you come from. In Edinburgh, it means good taste. In Glasgow, it means good fun”.’ Tom laughed as Tony wiped up the last traces of curry sauce with a piece of folded chapatti and stuffed it into his mouth, washing it down
with a long swig of export. He pushed his plate to one side. ‘Now it’s time to get down to the serious business,’ he said. ‘Where would you like to start?’ He counted off on his fingers. ‘I’ve got Laphroaig, Glenmorangie, Highland Park, Talisker, Balvenie and Lagavulin.’

‘When in doubt, I tend to go for alphabetical order.’

‘Helen, I need your help.’ Laura Harrison’s voice sounded agitated.

Helen Cuthbertson transferred the phone to her left hand and picked up her glass of Chablis. ‘I’ll do what I can, sis. You know that,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I need to get my hands on money – a lot of money – and I need it quickly.’

‘How much is
a lot
?’

‘Ten thousand pounds.’

Helen hesitated. ‘I don’t know about that. I’d have to talk to Bjorn. He’s in Stockholm right now, but he’ll be back tomorrow night and –’

‘I’ve got to have it, Helen!’

‘Steady on! I don’t have that kind of money to hand.’

‘You’ve got five thousand a month going into the Cayman Islands, for Christ’s sake! Don’t try to tell me you don’t have it.’

‘Calm down, Laura. The funds in the Caymans aren’t readily accessible. I can’t just phone up and transfer cash to my Bank of Scotland current account. It doesn’t work like that.’ Laura started sobbing down the line. ‘What’s the problem?’ Helen asked gently. ‘Why do you need the money?’

‘Mike stitched me up,’ she said between sobs. ‘The bastard remortgaged the house, sold the bookies’ shops and cashed in his
life insurance policies without saying a bloody word. He’s left me with debts that have to be cleared.’

‘I’m sure we’ll be able to sort something out. As I said, Bjorn will be back from Stockholm tomorrow night. He’s got a couple of days off. We’ll come across to your place first thing on Tuesday morning and talk things through.’

Tom Freer looked at his watch. ‘Hey, is that the time? I really ought to be making tracks. Mel will be wondering where I’ve got to.’

‘Give her a bell,’ Tony said.

‘She’s probably asleep by now, in which case she wouldn’t appreciate being woken up to be told I’m on my way. Okay if I call a cab?’

‘Sure. The number of the nearest rank’s on the side of the phone.’

Tom picked up the handset and dialled. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said, replacing the receiver.

‘Time for a nightcap, then.’ Tony got to his feet, a little unsteadily, and fetched the Talisker bottle from the cupboard. ‘Not a lot left in this one,’ he said, angling the bottle and holding it up to the light. ‘Still, enough for a snifter.’

‘Tell me something,’ Tom said as Tony was pouring. ‘A couple of people at work asked me what school I went to. What’s that all about?’

Tony kicked off his shoes and swung his feet up onto the kitchen table. ‘Ah ha! They were trying to find out what foot you kick with.’

‘Come again?’

‘Are you a Billy or a Tim?’ He transferred his whisky tumbler from one hand to the other, then back again. ‘A blue-nose or
a Bhoy? Do you frequent Ibrox or Parkhead? I realise this is difficult for you to get your head round, Tom – you have to be brought up with it. The English don’t have a clue about the west of Scotland mentality. They can’t begin to understand the bigotry.’

‘Bigotry’s not something we’re short of down south,’ Tom stated emphatically.

‘There’s bigotry …’ Tony transferred his whisky glass again. ‘And there’s bigotry. What I’m talking about is inherited, religious bigotry. Let me ask you a question.’ He put his glass down on the table and ripped the ring-pull from a can of export. ‘How many people did you work with in the Met?’

Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘Twenty, maybe – perhaps thirty?’

‘Of those, how many were Catholics and how many were Protestants?’

‘How on earth would I know something like that?’

‘Exactly! That’s my point. I can tell you what foot everyone in Pitt Street kicks with. And I mean everyone – from the chief constable down to the cleaners. In this part of the world you have to know everyone’s religion. It’s as much a part of their identity as their name. No one will ask you outright, of course – that would be unsubtle. So when you first meet someone, they’ll josh you about what football team you support. If you admit to Celtic or Rangers they’ve got you pigeon-holed. If you claim to support Partick Thistle, and you weren’t born in Maryhill, they’ll suspect you’re trying to duck the issue so they’ll pick their moment to slip the killer question into the conversation: “What school did you go to, pal?” Bingo! If it begins with “Saint” or “Our Lady” you’re a Tim, if not, you’re a Hun. No point in trying to qualify your response, by the way: “I went to such and such a school, but I’m an atheist, an agnostic, a Jew,
or I’ve recently converted to the Church of Scientology.” None of that’ll wash. The rules don’t allow for opting out.’ Tony took a long swig of beer from his can. ‘You’re not going to believe this but a few years back a Sikh applied for a job as a trainee constable and the interviewer asked him if he was a Catholic Sikh or a Protestant Sikh.’

Tom burst out laughing. ‘You cannot be serious!’

‘It would be hilarious if it wasn’t the God’s honest truth. Let me explain how things work in this part of the world. From the age of four, children are segregated.’ Tony separated out the empty cans. ‘Protestants to one school.’ He slid the lager cans to the far end of the table. ‘Catholics to another.’ He wrapped his arms round the export cans and pulled them towards him. ‘Thus ensuring that everyone you’re in contact with during your formative years is of the same religious persuasion. This, in turn, defines the football team you’ll support, who your mates will be and, if your family has its way, who you’ll marry and how you’ll bring up your kids. It’s no exaggeration to say that the primary school your mammy sends you to defines the label branded on your forehead for the rest of your life.’ With a sweep of his arm Tony sent all the cans clattering to the floor.

Tom looked incredulous. ‘Surely that’s all a thing of the past?’

‘Don’t you believe it!’

‘I didn’t realise things were as bad as that.’

‘Just once, while you’re up in Glasgow, try to get your hands on a ticket for an Old Firm match and see what you make of it. The raw hatred between the rival sets of fans is almost tangible. The powers that be try to keep a lid on things but I can remember being at games, not all that long ago, when half the fans, the majority of them pissed out of their brains, were belting out
“The Sash My Father Wore” and rejoicing in the slaughter of the papists at the Battle of the Boyne while the other lot were chanting “The Soldier’s Song” and wallowing in the glories of the 1916 Easter Rising.’

‘It sounds like a completely different world.’ Tom said.

‘The Met might have a monopoly on institutionalised racism, but we’ve cornered the market when it comes to religious bigotry.’ Tony broke off to tip the dregs from the Talisker bottle into Tom’s glass, then drained his can. ‘And things aren’t a lot better at work,’ he added with feeling.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Pitt Street might as well be a branch of the Orange Lodge. If you don’t do the handshake and roll up your trouser leg at the appropriate time you might as well forget about having a career. I got knocked back for promotion to sergeant first time round because the high heidyins didn’t like the school I went to.’

‘How can you know that was the reason?’ Tom asked incredulously.

‘Because I know!’ Tony snorted. ‘Look at Charlie Anderson. One of the best cops in the division, yet left to fester at the rank of DI for God knows how many years. The only reason he eventually got a step up on the ladder was because there was nobody else. I’m telling you, the foot you kick with around here is a damned sight more important than any ability you might or might not have.’

Tony held the Talisker bottle up to the light. ‘This one’s dead. Okay with you if we go back to the Balvenie?’

‘As long as you’re not expecting me to go through the alphabet again,’ Tom said, holding out his glass.

Jude Ramsay lay quietly in bed listening to her husband’s steady breathing. After waiting until it had developed into a regular snore she slipped from underneath the duvet and tiptoed along the hall to his study. Closing the door quietly behind her she switched on the light and eased open the bottom drawer of the desk. She saw the half-full carton of Marlboro.

Tony O’Sullivan was waiting for Charlie when he arrived in the office. ‘We’ve arrested Tommy Hemphill,’ he announced. ‘He’s the junkie who tried to have Councillor Mullen’s eye out. We’ve also picked up Tosh McCulloch. How do you want to play it?’

‘You take care of Hemphill, Tony,’ Charlie said as they strode down the corridor. I want my pound of flesh out of McCulloch. Where is he being held?’

‘Over in Partick.’

‘Phone across and let them know I’m on my way.’

Charlie circled slowly round behind the nervous, scrawny figure hunched on the chair. Tosh McCulloch twisted round in his seat, his eyes following Charlie’s every move.

‘What are you playing at, Anderson?’

‘I’m weighing up if you’re worth losing my pension for,’ Charlie growled. McCulloch’s tongue flicked over his dry lips. ‘Tell you what,’ Charlie said. ‘How about if
you
start something?’ He kicked hard at the leg of McCulloch’s chair, causing it to almost topple over. ‘That would really make my day.’

McCulloch wrapped his arms over his head and cowered down. ‘I know my rights. Somebody else should be in here.’

‘Who should be in here?’